Sight
by Exploding Dandelion
Summary: He feels fragile, like he's about to break. Everything is changing and all he can do is sit and think as Donatello cleans around his eyes. What if his brothers change? What if he forgets what they look like?


**I haven't posted anything in a while, and I feel antsy. Other stories will be updated, but for now I'm putting up a small little story I wrote a bit ago. I hope you all enjoy it! Takes place in the 2k12 universe, at an indeterminate time.**

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"It's not so bad."

"Mhmm." But his brother continues to rub around his eyes with the stinging liquid. A harsh, throat-clearing stench coats Leo's throat and settles in his lungs.

Donatello is gentle and careful, so none of the chemical touches Leo's eyes, which is a pointless precaution since he can't see out of them anyway. He doesn't need to see his brother work to know how slow and meticulous he's going. The air barely shifts around him. Even the chemical seems to be dripping carefully.

Leo feels fragile. It tingles along his skin and he feels like he will break if someone touches him again. And that just isn't true. He won't break. Really, he won't.

"It's not so bad," he repeats, louder, shoving his face against Donatello's hands. He feels Don's fingers stutter and tremble against his skin, and shoves down the guilt that immediately bubbles from his chest. "I can figure out ways to work around it. And don't your other senses heighten anyway? I'll become a way better ninja. I just need some time, that's all."

He's babbling and he knows it as it happens. Don doesn't say anything, doesn't interrupt, but Leo knows he's still there. He hears the trickling chemical and his heart is racing, waiting for Donatello to burst his bubble. To say something scientific that proves that senses don't actually heighten, or some bit of reality Leo already knows, like that it will take years of re-training before he's able to do anything remotely ninja-like again.

Leo braces his body, trying to prepare for it. It's like stretching hardened glass. He can already feel himself cracking.

Instead, there's a soft _swoosh_ of liquid, then fast, constant plops before the rag presses into his cheeks. Don's fingers glance his skin. They're warm and calloused, and a hint of shakiness. Leo releases the breath he's been holding, feeling empty. Don's barely touching him but he can feel his brother's sigh through his fingertips.

"I know, Leo." A wet hand clamps onto his knee, squeezing. Leo reaches for his brother's hand with both of his, holding the fingers tight. He imagines what they look like: olive green, thinner than his own but not by much, wrapped in white bandages. Spotty, too, almost like freckles. There's fifteen. No, fourteen.

His throat closes and he panics; he's forgotten how many freckles are on his brother's hands. Don senses Leo's alarm, threading his fingers through Leo's right hand and pulling it away.

"We all know. If anyone can do this, it's you. And we'll be with you, every step of the way. I can look up some programs that will help you adjust and-"

That's not it, though, that's not the only thing and it spills from his mouth before he can stop it, "I don't want to forget what you look like." His right eye wells and he hates that he's about to cry in front of his brother, but he can't stop it either.

"You won't," Donatello soothes. He feels closer, like his face is right in front of Leo's. "Give yourself some credit." There's a pause, then he adds, "I can even describe what changes, if you want."

Leo sniffles, angry at himself. "Yeah," he says, finally. "Yeah, okay. Um, how many spots are on your hands? Just wondering."

It sounds stupid when he says it out loud and he wishes he could take it back, trying to back away. He hears a few bottles clank and roll around as he tries to scoots backward. Donatello holds him in place with one hand and several painful seconds tick by before he switches hands. Leo's chest tightens. He swallows, trying to think of something to say.

"Twelve on my right, sixteen on my left."

Leo breathes hard through his mouth, managing a smile and a small thank you before Don starts up with the chemical again. He feels fragile and hates it, but Don is careful. He isn't breaking.

A rhythm develops with the rag, each cheek rubbed ten times before dipping into the liquid again. Leo fades from the lab, imagining his brother's hands.

They are olive green. Thinner than his own, but only by a little. They're wrapped in small white bandages. Twelve freckle-like spots are on his right hand, sixteen on his left.


End file.
